CELEBRITY FAN FICTION
Halloween 2013 was such a wonderful night! I was honored to spend my night at the Playboy Mansion, sucking the blood of celebrities and cutting myself to disco dubstep. I roamed the grounds, soaking in every sexy detail. Dolphins swam and danced through the water, breaking the bones of distracted Tween-wave pop stars without remorse. Elf servants, imported from the North Pole, scurried about in cute grim reaper costumes, serving Tinsel Town's elite mixed drinks and cocaine. Palm trees swayed in the breeze and panties seemed to disappear into the spooky thin air.
Unable to walk after Arnold Schwarzenegger spiked my drink with ketamine, I stumbled into the infamous Playboy Sex Dungeon. I sat there for hours, struggling to remain human while Britney Spears played with herself in front of the dolphins that had performed earlier. They clapped and squeaked as she finished, and, at this point, I lost all tangible proof of reality. I started to freak out, until I saw an angel.
Beyonce walked in like a Lioness, cutting through everyone's bullshit with her samurai wit. Her Hugh Hefner mask was incredibly life-like, disgusting, and smelled of cupcake frosting, but her body glistened with perfection and prevented me from vomiting. She took my hand and taught me how to dance while soulfully whispering Toto's "Africa" into my ear. I realized I was in love as she chained me to the brick wall and carved her name into my chest with her fingernails. We became best friends forever, and we christened this bond with a session of epic love-making. Our flames of passion were extinguished as Miley, dressed as Gene Simmons, burst into the vacant dungeon, scratching at her chicken pox and flicking skin at us. Enraged with orgasmic anger, Beyonce bit Miley's head off. It was amazing. She swallowed it whole, said, "Fuck that shit", and kissed my sweaty lips. We made out for hours in that dark beautiful dungeon. As I caressed Beyonce's perfect stomach, I could feel Miley nibbling at my fingers, and I realized I was enjoying the best night of my life.
Lou Reed was a dear friend of mine. He used to bring enriched uranium over to my house, and he would tell me stories about Andy Warhol as we built miniature nuclear bombs in my dark basement. I had a black, fire-breathing horse named White Satan that Lou loved dearly. They used to prance around my estate, White Satan shooting flames of soulful vengeance, while Lou threw our freshly-made mini weapons of mass destruction at the millions of ant hills that plagued my bountiful crops. The radiation turned the resident blue jays into sharks, but I never complained about that
I sat behind Justin Bieber at the Floyd Mayweather fight. I immediately left the Floyd Mayweather fight.
Deep in the jungle that is New York's Fashion Week, Miley Cyrus showcases her tribal styles for Gotham's harshest critics. Kanye hid deep inside Miley's uterus, and a disappointed crowd gasped in horror as he emerged stoned, wet, and lonely.
Our love was fueled by LSD and tapes of Free Willy. She was my Hannah Montana. I was her Red Ranger. We became divided over Oprah's interview with Lindsay Lohan. It tore us apart.
With the fury of ten thousand cute kitten tongues, she danced against my impenetrable suit. I fought to maintain my composure, but the yearning stares of the crowd only increased our arousal. Her tongue slithered throughout the fans like a serpent in the mud, searching for my satisfaction. Our souls burned with a fiery passion as our climax made history.
